Halo: Over the River and Through the Woods
by Mike-045
Summary: We all know about the first team sent to the Ark. Why, many of us have played as them. But this is the story of the second team sent to that structure, the efforts of a man named Avery Johnson and a Sangheili known as Rtas 'Vadum.
1. Chapter One

**Author's Notes-**

Hey all, welcome to the beginning of my newest fic, _Over the River and Through the Woods_. It follows an alternate perspective of two soldiers, the "sidekicks" of Halo. Anyone know why there's not an "Action" genre to place our stories under? Anyway...I won't bore you with a dull introduction, so let's get this party started.

**Disclaimer-**

I own nothing…seriously, nothing.

* * *

**Chapter One.**

Sergeant Major Avery J. Johnson was described by many as the atypical Marine. Six feet, three inches tall, and just over two hundred pounds, he deserved every ounce of praise thrown at his worthy face.

He, along with a fire team of four other Marines, sprinted down an opaque hallway inside the UNSC base, known to some as the "Crow's Nest." They, being "good 'ole humanity," were mere minutes, if not seconds, from coming under fire from Covenant Loyalist Forces – Brutes, Grunts, Drones, Grunts, Jackals, Grunts, and more Grunts.

Johnson, cradling his MA5C Assault Rifle in the crook of his left arm, reached into his pocket for a box of Sweet William cigars. Tripping slightly, he cursed and managed to pull it out without dropping, or more importantly, misfiring, his weapon.

Extracting one of his most valuable possessions, a five-inch long cigar, from the box, he carefully closed the lid and jammed it back into his pocket. Clenching his metaphorical lifeblood in between his teeth, he continued running down the corridor.

He wasn't even thinking about reaching for his lighter.

* * *

He came to a stop outside the armory – his companions had gone ahead to the Rally Point – and entered the doorway. 

It was devoid of life.

In contrast to this, it was filled to the brim with racks of new pistols, rifles, grenades, rocket launchers, and more items than you could toss a Grunt at.

Walking, purely by instinct, over to the shotgun rack, he absentmindedly picked up a clutch of fragmentation grenades in his left hand as his right lifted an M90A shotgun from a line of its former compatriots.

However, he glanced to his right, and had to look again – and then once more. In the bare, empty corner of the room, one thing stood out – an eight-foot tall, steel plated case in the center of the room. He approached it.

Suddenly, the door behind him slammed shut.

He shrugged it off and continued to the case. Next to it was a table, and on the oak tabletop was a small holographic datapad.

Nothing out of the ordinary – except that it had his name and number glowing on the top of it in bright, green print.

Sighing, he picked it up and typed in his password. After an extraordinarily short delay, a mechanized voice reverberated from its small speakers, "Welcome, Sergeant Major Avery J. Johnson. Please, access the file labeled, 'introduction.' Thank you."

He did so, and the voice droned on, "The following is a list of UNSC Marine Corps personnel who have been judged to have gone above and beyond the qualifications required for a rank-and-file Marine. You have been selected as one of them."

_You're damn right I was, _he thought.

On the screen, a long list of names scrolled down. He caught it in time to only catch a few names, but only a few were familiar to him – "Eric Raynord", "Alex Steele", "Franklin Mendez", "Wallace Jenkins", "Gui Montag", "Kurt Ambrosse", and a man listed only as, "The Bear."

The Voice continued, "Unfortunately, for one reason or another, some classified, you are the only recipient to receive the promotion." His attention was piqued.

"Inside the large, metal case in front of you, there is your very own suit of armor, designated the SILVERBACK Heavy Combat System." The Voice paused for seemingly dramatic effect. "According to your records, you have some experience with the MJORNIR armor. This armor, however, is slightly less potent than its predecessor, in that its reflex and biological enhancement systems are weaker – for your own health, that is."

Suddenly, there was the sound of a pressurized seal coming unlocked. Leaping backwards, Johnson had barely enough time to avoid the heavy lid of the box to come crashing down.

Squinting into the mist of vapor issuing from the now-open casket, he couldn't help but raise his eyebrows at what he found.

Inside, suspended upon iron restraint claws, was the afore-mentioned suit of armor. It was painted a matte black, accented around the edges with a light gray. Each individual piece looked as if it were a flake of onyx, each weighing nearly twenty pounds.

The most striking feature, however, was the helmet.

It was oddly similar, and yet dissimilar, to the cylindrical shock-absorbing helmets worn by the ODSTs. It was a light-refracting matte black like the rest of the armor, but in a bizarre contrast to this the T-shaped visor was a light blue.

"Now then. If you would kindly remove your standard-issue Marine battleplate and any unnecessary garments, please do so." He grumbled, but complied, setting his armor and clothes in a pile several feet over. After a few minutes' time, the Voice came back, "Thank you for your cooperation. Now, please step in front of the armor case, with your back facing it." It waited a moment for him to move, and then, "Thank you. Please remain motionless while the neural body covering is applied. A pair of nozzles mounted on metal arms protruded from the inside of the case, and silently sprayed him with an icy agent that bonded to his skin, form-fitting.

After a moment, it was done. Then, the Voice gave him further instructions, this time to stretch and allow the solvent to begin to harden.

When this was over, it politely asked him to resume his former pose, and not to budge as the claws attached the armor to his body.

He waited, rolling the end of the cigar in between his teeth back and forth as the mechanical appendages skittered over his heavyset form. After nearly fifteen minutes, it was done, except for the helmet, which an "arm" held out for him to take.

He looked at it, and took it in his right hand, and then realized his mistake.

He took the cigar from his mouth, and looked between it and the helmet. After a few moments thought, he sighed and set the helmet on the table.

As he attempted to finish his cigar, the Voice spoke again, "Now that you have outfitted yourself with the SILVERBACK Combat System, you will soon be deployed along with the rest of your team."

_What team_, he thought.

The Voice continued, "The Covenant Separatists have decided to send another of their warriors in to help you in your mission to the Ark, not unlike the Arbiter's joining with Siera-117. He should arrive short-" The Voice was cut off as blaring klaxons and alarms sounded throughout the base, and Johnson hurried to attach an Assault Rifle to his back, an M6G on each hip, and, lastly, he picked up his previously discarded Shotgun. Holding it in his right hand, he took his helmet in his left and proceeded to the door.

Suddenly, an explosion rocked outside and several guttural roars accompanied by heavy _thuds_ on the door sounded.

Staggering, Johnson dropped his helmet and came to a firing position with the shotgun. _Wouldn't be long before those damned Brutes would break through…_

However, the roars turned to screams, and the beating stopped. The door opened, and he cautiously walked forward, shotgun at the ready.

Outside the door, nearly a dozen Brute corpses littered the hallway. Their violet blood coated the walls, and viscera was pooling at Johnson's feet. Were he a weaker man, we would have vomited. But he'd seen worse. He lowered the shotgun to his side, and turned to retrieve his helmet.

Then he heard a strange sound, like the hissing of a gas line.

Johnson brought the shotgun up one-handed, and nearly fired a shot when a massive silver-armored Elite uncloaked in front of his face. They stared each other down, and Johnson noticed that it was missing two of its mandibles – the left ones.

Then the Elite unpowered its Energy Sword, which had been at Johnson's throat, and in a deep Shakespearian-like voice, rumbled, "Greetings, human. I believe the phrase is as follows; it takes two...to tango."

Johnson laughed.

* * *

**Author's Notes-**

There you go. I hope that last statement correctly conveys to you the type of humor this Fic will feature.

Oh, and I did ask each author before I included their respectful characters – a big thanks to soulguard, Obsidian Thirteen, and Quirrel for allowing the (albeit minor) inclusion of their characters, and I highly suggest that you read their stories.

Please review, I'd love to hear what the community has to say.

Cheers,

-mike


	2. Chapter Two

Sorry for the long update time guys, I'm on a four-day-long from school. During which I'm going to attempt to update all of ongoing stories (thus, all except for Fighting, Fighting, Everywhere!).  
Oh, I'm also considering starting a Transformers (sequel to the '07 blockbuster and one of my favorite movies)

Hopefully, things won't look too rushed.

* * *

**Chapter Two.**

"What. The. Hell."

These were the words Johnson said when the newly dubbed, "Half Split Lip" uncloaked in front of him, Energy Sword at the ready.

He didn't shout them. He also didn't mutter them under his breath. He just…said them.

The Elite stood outside the door, slightly hunched over due to the relative size of the hallway. Johnson was glad it was uncomfortable.

He sighed, eyes not leaving the Elite's, and then turned around to pick up his helmet. Then he noticed the datapad was flashing a bright green. Lifting it, it activated and The Voice droned out, "Thank you for running your armor systems diagnostic. The check up should have answered any questions you had to ask."

He swore. Loudly.

Then The Voice continued, "Now, you must contact Miranda Keyes, who is both in charge of this installation and has further instructions for you." He was about to ask why the recording couldn't tell him, when it stated, "She will be carrying your mission details because this datapad's battery is set to detonate in fifteen minutes. It has been counting down since the start of this mission briefing."

Johnson finally noticed the small countdown timer in the upper right-hand corner of the screen. It said 02:09.

He swore again. Louder.

At this point, he would have thrown the annoying device out of the nearest window, and actually moved to do so…when he realized that he was sixty feet underground.

Swearing once more, louder than the previous times, he set it back down on the table and noticed three letters carved into the middle of the oaken tabletop:

**O N I**.

_Figures_, he thought.

Turning, he finally remembered the Elite standing in the room. He half-heartedly reached for one of his sidearms, but then shrugged and instead lifted his helmet – again.

He brought it down on his head, and electricity jumped between the helmet's base and the neck portion until they were connected. There was the sound of a pressurized seal…sealing…and then the HUD (Head's Up Display) powered on.

His vision turned to a slight shade of blue, and then returned to his normal, uncolored view.

For a split second, a wave of visible, light blue static flashed over his body.

When it subsided, a small, circular, meter appeared in the bottom-left corner of his HUD. His mind was blank for a minute, but he then remembered the Chief's energy shielding.

He'd always thought that was pretty freaking sweet.

Directly above that, another counter materialized – this one being a motion counter. Unfortunately, it recognized the Elite as a friendly.

Then he heard what sounded like a walrus sick with bronchitis having a fit. Turning, he realized it was Half Split Lip. The Elite stood perfectly still in the corner, where it had, apparently, been balancing a fourteen-inch combat knife on its forefinger.

Suddenly, it flexed the twisted appendage and the blade spun into the air, turned a full three-hundred-sixty degrees, and was caught by the handle in Half-Split-Lip's gauntleted, four-fingered hand. He then set the weapon down on the table.

The Elite turned to Johnson, and mouthed, "Are you ready to leave, yet, human?"

Johnson twitched a little, but was unfazed by the inquiry.

"Just a second, Half Split Lip. Gotta get my gun." He then reached for the forgotten M90A, and nearly dropped it once again when a wireframe of the shotgun popped into place in the upper-right corner of his HUD, complete with an ammunition counter.

A happy "ping" sounded, and he guessed that meant he was ready to go.

"Alright, Splitty. Let's head out."

* * *

Rtas 'Vadumee stalked through the corridors, carefully sidestepping the Brute carnage as if it were acid. The human Sergeant didn't give much thought to where he walked, tramping through pools of the saucy violet.

After a few minutes' of tense silence, the Sergeant broke the metaphorical ice by questioning, "Hey, Splitty. I thought that blade of yours didn't make wounds bleed? Sealed it on contact or some other medical crap?"

Rtas slowed to the human's pace, and stared at his left hand. He then answered, "That is true, albeit much "cut down" as humans say. The heat of our Energy Blades is high enough that they cauterize ruptured vessels almost immediately after they are serrated."

Johnson grunted, and then said, "Huh. And here I was thinking you girls just didn't have good enough shanks."

It was Rtas' turn to grunt.

Johnson continued, "Well…how did you take care of those Brutes so messy-like if your sword stops the bleedin'?"

Rtas' silence continued, but he answered by flexing his hand. Johnson nodded in understanding.

Suddenly, Rtas stopped walking, and Johnson did the same, albeit a second later. They'd heard something.

Grunts.

Smiling behind his helmet, Johnson loaded a round and pumped the shotgun.

Things were about to get fun.

* * *

Tunod had never been so happy in his entire life. He'd slain one of the humans, shot an overcharged bolt from his pistol into the creature's face – while it was firing at him. His armor dyed a lightish red from the Marine's blood, Tunod was still bragging to his two friends – Frig and Snommis, orange and (naturally) red armored, respectively.

They were only three Unggoy in a group of thirteen, their Brute overseer having been killed earlier in the day.

The chattering mob came to a four-way intersection, and after a moments' pause continued forward.

Suddenly, Frig and Snommis froze in horror, eyes the size of food nipples.

Tunod felt an odd, burning sensation on the top of his skull, and he started to panic. He warily asked, "What? Is it spider?"

Then the grenade detonated, taking Frig and Snommis with it and setting off the other Unggoy's multiple methane tanks.

Their last words were a combined, falsetto, "Son of bitch!"

* * *

As it turned out, Rtas had chosen, instead of charging blindly into the group of Grunts – as Johnson had insisted – to instead activate his Active Camouflage, sneak into their group, and stick the loudest with a plasma grenade.

And then leap as far away from the mounting firestorm as possible.

* * *

There you go, abit short, yes, but at least it's an update, lol? The next will be much larger, I promise.

Cheers, and please review,

-mike


End file.
